I had seen too many fallen comrades, former long haired glamour-pusses who birthed that baby and marched straight to the salon for a whack job. It wasn't having the baby that made them a mom; the extermination of long waves and sheets of hair that blanketed the shoulders sealed the deal. My sweet little naive self assumed that I would do things differently, as if it had never even occurred to these poor, harried mamas that they could actually keep their hair.
I have had long hair since, well, I don't really remember a time that it wasn't. Over the years I've flirted with the idea of cutting it off and was always admonished by the stylist for being silly. A curly haired girl like me? If I want to look like Pat from SNL? Sure, go ahead. And then there was the whole Samson, hair = power thing. I have always been identified by my hair. My very big curly hair. Would I still be pretty? Confident? Would the guy standing behind me in line be curious to know the face under that short 'do? (Yes, my vanity knows no bounds)
And then I was photographed yesterday looking like this:
I called Grace and booked my appointment.
Nearly 15 months postpartum and living in a city that feels like the inside of an exhaust pipe spewing vaseline, I owe an apology to every mom I judged for going under the scissors. It is just too much work for so little payoff, and honestly, I was just too curious to see what I might look like, Pat be damned. I marched over to Hi Gorgeous, and with my heart in my throat, I ordered her to cut it off. I emerged air conditioned, lighter, more than a little freaked out. But here it is, all freshly blown out and bang-y.
I have now been corrected several times that my hair is technically still long, but that shit is straight, y'all. I have yet to do the whole wash and go curly 'do where my hair shrinks up about 3 inches.